The Crusader sat next in the circle. With the help of the beggar he had undone the thongs on his armor and stripped himself of his shining coat of mail. In his woolen shirt, worn and marked with rust, he was a picture of stalwart strength, with knotted muscles and heavy shoulders.
“Thou,” began the hermit, “thou, Sir Knight, hast been to Jerusalem, across yonder waters, to protect the sepulcher of thy Lord Christ, whose Birthday this is. And thou dost not know thy Lord; wherefore thou hast no joy in Him.”
“Not know my Lord!” cried the knight.
“Nay, thou knowest not thy Lord! By two things I know it and will prove it thee. Imprimis, thou hast slain thy fellow-men, and hast waded in their blood, for the sake of thy God. Wherefore thou knowest not Him; for the Christ is not served by blood-letting, by the slaying of thy brother-men. Thou dost hate the Saracen who dishonors thy Lord’s tomb; but thy Lord has bidden thee love the Saracen, and thou hast not heard his voice. Again, thy Lord Christ would have thee kindly and tender toward all, both man and beast; but thou hast left thy good steed, who has borne thee to thy Lord’s city and thus far homeward—thou hast left him lying down yonder with a broken limb and hast not put him out of his misery. Wherefore, again, thou dost not know thy Lord; not knowing Him, thou canst have none of his joy at his birth-feast! Wert thou Christ’s man, as thou dost wear Christ’s cross, thou wouldst ere this have cared for thy beast!”
At that the knight leaped to his feet.
“By this cross,” he cried, “but thou art a bold man, Sir Hermit!”
His sword was in his hand. The hermit made no move. The others sat watching the shining blade. The knight caught the hermit’s eye, hesitated, dropped his sword with a clatter, and turned and strode down the path out of sight.
The hermit turned to the merchant.
“And thou, sir,” he said, “I have thy measure an I mistake not; and the reason why thou hast no joy in this feast. Thou hast so encased thy soul in the fat of getting and of self-indulgence that thou hast forgotten it. Thou hast lived for thyself. Thy treasure-chest thou hast filled, and thou hast wrung thy gold from the sweat and tears of many a brother-man. God gave thee thy talents, but thou hast not requited God. Thou art swollen with what thou hast sucked from God’s world. Thy pride is in what thou callest thine own, and thy joy in spending it for what thou callest thyself. Thou knowest not the Christ-child; for the Christ bids thee give, not get; and thou hast not found joy in this feast, for thou hast through it all thought only of thyself! The joy of Christ’s Birthday will come when thou forgettest thyself!”
And the merchant, when the hermit ceased speaking, grew very red in the face and fingered his wallet uncomfortably. But he had not a word to say.